


Tip Over The Edge

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, I love Molly's pyjamas, Slow Build, Stillborn, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Molly, I need the thumbs.” She blinked wearily. Her mind was foggy, after two weeks of not sleeping. Of tossing and turning in her now-lonely bed. Everything she had wanted, everything she had almost had, ripped out of her grasp. Her fiance. Her baby. All she had left was her career, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that anymore. It wasn’t worth it.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She rifled about for the bag he wanted, that she had prepared earlier, thrust it in his direction without a word. Speaking wasn’t easy for her. She didn’t care. Turned her attention back to the body in front of her. All she could do was focus on one thing at a time. It was too much, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on her. Feeling him assess. Think. Process. He knew, and she knew it. All she could hope -</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tip Over The Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Based on these two prompts:
> 
> Sherlolly prompt. Sherlock tries to earn Molly's trust back after a devastating deduction.
> 
> Sherlolly prompt: Sherlock is having trouble telling Molly he has feelings for her so he starts doing small things for her to show her he cares for her.
> 
> You can prompt more Sherlolly from me [here!](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com)

Molly rubbed a hand over her middle, idly staring at the bottle of meds she was holding. Antidepressants. Prescribed after she had had her stillborn child. There were plenty left. Enough to do what she wanted. What she wished. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the couch, a sigh escaping her. Moving to the bed required too much effort. She was tempted to sleep there, on the floor, legs in front of her. What she really wanted was to sleep and not wake up.

_“Molly, I need the thumbs.” She blinked wearily. Her mind was foggy, after two weeks of not sleeping. Of tossing and turning in her now-lonely bed. Everything she had wanted, everything she had almost had, ripped out of her grasp. Her fiance. Her baby. All she had left was her career, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that anymore. It wasn’t worth it._

_She rifled about for the bag he wanted, that she had prepared earlier, thrust it in his direction without a word. Speaking wasn’t easy for her. She didn’t care. Turned her attention back to the body in front of her. All she could do was focus on one thing at a time. It was too much, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on her. Feeling him assess. Think. Process. He knew, and she knew it. All she could hope -_

_“You lost your baby. Stillborn?” Sherlock’s voice rang out in the quiet morgue, and she saw John tense next to him. “And - he left you, over it.” He made a dismissive noise, a scornful one, and Molly went rigid, tension freezing her body like it was made of ice, ready to shatter. Everything felt cold. “You really have quite the knack for picking boyfriends, don’t you?” Sherlock shook his head._

_Molly turned. She didn’t remember it. Nor did she remember throwing the bloody scalpel, but she saw it embedded in the wall, just to the side of Sherlock’s head. John was staring at her, aghast, and Sherlock’s eyes had widened. He was surprised. Good. “Get out.” She wasn’t sure she actually said it. She hoped she did. Allowing herself a quick breath, she turned back to her corpse, and picked up a new scalpel. She heard the doors to the morgue close. The tension that had been holding her up, moments before, left her. The instrument fell with a clatter to the table, and she sank down to her knees, tears streaming down her face._

She had no more tears to shed. She was numb. Unfeeling. Nonexistent. Like the baby that had died in her womb. The living room was dark, only a single lamp casting its yellow glow across the room. She was in its thin sliver of light, and she forced herself to stand. Water. She needed water. The pills would go down easier that way. Or it would soothe her parched throat. She wasn’t sure.

“Here.” A long-fingered hand, wrapped around a glass of water, appeared in her range of vision as a tall figure came into the light.

“Get out.” Molly’s voice was brittle, but she sank back down to the ground, ignoring the water.

Sherlock offered it to her for a few more seconds, but drew back, sitting it on the table. He stood awkwardly, and Molly ignored him. “Take this, at least.” It was a wrapped gift, and he held it out to her. She didn’t move. Didn’t give him any encouragement. He didn’t deserve anything. Carefully Sherlock sat it next to her.

“Get out,” she said quietly. This time her voice was even and measured. He leaned forward, and she recoiled, breath escaping her in a sharp hiss, but he didn’t touch her. Then he stood and left, leaving Molly next to the glass of water and a present. It was a choice. She could decide. Her fingers picked up the gift, caressed the immaculate wrapping. It couldn’t hurt. She slid a finger underneath the tape, opening it without ripping it, and carefully pulling out the contents.

She inhaled sharply, her eyes widening, drinking in the frame in front of her. It was a picture of her baby - Lily Anne, she reminded herself - wrapped in a blanket, at the hospital, after she had been - born. _Molly had been exhausted after 12 hours of labor, sweaty and worn out. The entire thing had been surreal. Tom had left her two days before, after it was revealed she it was very unlikely she would be able to carry to term and give him the children he wanted, so Molly had to face labor and the unknown on her own. They brought the little bundle into her room, allowed Molly to hold her, cradle her, kiss her soft cheeks and count her perfect little fingers and toes._

_Tears had streamed down her face, her voice had caught as she talked to the nurse, the one who had stayed with her the entire time. Her support system, fragile as it was. The nurse took photos, as many as Molly asked, and gave her the copies. Memories. All that she had of her little girl. There had been footprints, and fingerprints, and information to register Lily with the stillbirth registry. Everything Molly didn’t want to think about, but now had to._

It was a simple frame, coloured to match the theme of her living room. What she cared about was the photo. Her daughter. Black and white to eradicate any colour differences. Wrapped up in her swaddling blanket, one Molly had brought. Underneath it she was dressed in a onesie Molly had picked. The only time she would ever see her child. Hug her. Kiss her. Written in Sherlock’s elegant, messy script, off to the side, was ‘Lily Anne Hooper’. Her daughter’s name. He knew it. How, she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter.

Molly kissed the glass, pressed her fingers to it, her other hand resting briefly on her stomach, where Lily had once resided. She exhaled shakily, her mood lifted, comforted by the picture of her sleeping angel. Somehow, Sherlock had made things just a little bit easier. She went to cap the meds, and realised that the majority of the pills had disappeared. A flash of irritation. Anger. Frustration. A faint chuckle. Sherlock.

She picked up one, regarded it for a brief second, and tossed it into her mouth, closing her eyes as she drank the water from the table to wash it down. Clutching the photo to her middle, she stood carefully, shaky, and walked into the bedroom.

The next day she was called into her supervisor’s office. She grimaced. Someone had tattled, then. Maybe a morgue assistant. Was she going to lose her job? Still, she sat politely, a smile plastered on her tired face as she waited for the man to talk. When he spoke, it wasn’t what she expected. He offered her time off - paid time off. Without saying why. He was compassionate. Careful. Wary. Apologised for her working the past two weeks.

She shrugged it aside. Physically she had been lucky. Her milk had mostly dried up. The cramping was mostly gone. All physical signs of her pregnancy were quickly disappearing. But the emotions still lingered. They agreed to part time. She would come in a few days a week, work what she needed. Continue to work her cases, prepare her testimony. Everything she felt obligated to do. Just enough busy work that she did not stay at home and mourn with nothing else to occupy her.

Sherlock. Her hands stilled, even though she was back in her laboratory, working on signing off the files. She had one case on her roster, and all she hoped was that Sherlock would not drop by. Even after - even after the frame, Molly hadn’t forgiven him for what he said. She finished the last signature with a flourish and filed away the last few folders. All that she had left was the autopsy and the resulting paperwork.

She took a deep breath and pulled on her lab coat, gathering what she needed and walking through the door. Her footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway, and she made it to her morgue table without any interruptions. She prepped the body, humming to herself as she grabbed her autopsy kit. It wasn’t until she rolled it open and went to grab her initial scalpel that she paused. They weren’t her normal ones, not the well-worn ones she was used to.

These were brand new, and quite expensive, if Molly could guess from the make. Engraved on each handle were her initials, MH, in an elegant but readable script. She stared at them, and then went into her supervisor’s office. “Did someone mess with my kit?”

“Yeah, a bloke requested access. Said he had a gift.” Her supervisor spun in his chair, then went back to his computer. “Problem?”

“Tall sort of bloke? Curly hair? Scary?”

“Quite.”

“Alright then.” Molly closed the door and strode back to the table. It didn’t make up for everything, she mused as she picked up the shiny handle. But it was a start.

It was a pattern, after that. Little things. Her favourite coffee shop - her drink would be paid for. Takeaway was delivered when she wasn’t feeling like eating. Equipment in the laboratory actually got fixed on time. The few times she saw Sherlock, he was quiet, and said little beyond what was necessary. John had something to do with it, she was sure. Sherlock was rarely that meek unless someone else had spoken to him. Whatever it was, she was grateful.

Every night she slept with the frame, careful to not damage it in any way. When she woke up it was there. When she went to sleep, it was there. Another photo found its way into her wallet, so she could pull it out at work. She had been grateful it was not a full frame. She did not want the pitying glances directed her way at work. Not again. Molly had been meticulous about separating work and her personal life, and it would be good to keep it that way.

The door to the laboratory opened one afternoon she was examining results, testing slides, determining the causes of death. She glanced up and saw Sherlock standing in the door, obviously hesitant. “I’m almost done,” she said, shifting slightly so that he had room to work and didn’t have to sit near her if he did not want.

It was odd, the prickling sensation that trailed over her skin. She wasn’t sure if it was nerves. Fear. Adrenaline. She wasn’t scared, not really. Wary, yes. But her nerves had settled considerably over the past month. Her body was healed. Back to normal. She still couldn’t see a pregnant woman or a newborn without breaking into tears. Without feeling her chest constrict, feel everything close in on her. It was rare they encountered those at work, and her coworkers had been careful.

“I have been told it is polite to inquire as to another’s well-being.” Sherlock’s voice broke into Molly’s thoughts, and she started, streaking ink across the paper.

Molly let out a shaky chuckle. “What?”

“Are you healing properly?” Sherlock settled on the stool a meter or two away. Enough distance for her not to feel caged. She inhaled sharply, eyes closing, mind flashing back to when she was labouring, bringing her dead baby into the world. The crib, still at home. All the small clothes she had bought and that her baby would never wear. The memories she could not bear to take down, not when they had never had a chance to form. Her breath started coming in short, sharp gasps, and she clenched the table, trying to center herself, restore her sense of balance.

She didn’t hear him move, didn’t hear him come closer. “What is your name.” His voice was gentle, but persistent, loud enough to cut through the fog of panic surrounding her.

“Molly.” Her grip loosened slightly. Her breathing eased, the tiniest amount.

“What is the clinical diagnosis of the file you have near?”

She moved her eyes. Moved her hand. Opened the file. Forced herself to focus. Skim it. “Aortic aneurysm. Bled out quickly.”

“Good,” Sherlock murmured, voice low and soothing. His deep baritone was lulling, and for a brief moment she allowed herself to sink into it, wrapped it about her like a blanket. Pretend that he cared. That he wanted her. That he was there because he cared, and not because she was the most convenient way for him to get access to the laboratory.

He continued talking, quizzing her in the nicest way possible about easily accessible facts. Things that, as a pathologist, she had long internalized. Eventually she drew in a breath easily. No panic, no weight in her chest, just a simple, quiet existence. Her fingers curled on the desk, uncertainty taking its place. What did he want from her? Did he want something? Why was he being nice? Molly watched, instead, as he stepped back and returned to where he had been sitting, leaving her to complete her work in peace.

That night, there was a knock on her door. With a sigh she stood, walking over and peering through the viewer. She inhaled sharply, her eyes widening. Sherlock was standing there, a bag of takeaway in his hands. Slowly she opened the door, staring at him. It didn’t help that she was dressed in her pyjamas, a ratty t-shirt with a sparkly cat on it and light pink bottoms with cherries on them. That was what she got, for not expecting company.

“Hello,” she said evenly. He was dressed immaculately, as always, and she could see his pressed trousers sticking out underneath the thick wool of his favourite coat.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something and stopped, instead holding out the takeaway. “For you.”

Molly carefully took the bag from him, noting there was more than enough for two or three people. “Expecting company, were you?” she inquired.

“No.” Pause. “I was rather hoping to be the company.”

Molly took a deep breath, and thought. All the little things. He had tried. He had reached out. For Sherlock, that was saying so much. “Would you like some tea?” she asked, standing aside so he could come in.

“Yes, please,” he answered, taking the boxes from her and opening her cupboards with a suspicious ease.

“How often, exactly, do you come here?” Molly tilted her head slightly, grabbing the plates before he could get to them and turning on the kettle. It was odd, for someone who had only been to her apartment once or twice to know where she kept things. Sherlock’s memory was spectacular, but this reeked of something else. What unsettled Molly more was that she wasn’t sure she minded. It was a little flutter in her stomach, feeling special to Sherlock Holmes. Like she mattered.

She crushed the feeling ruthlessly. She wasn’t ready for any of that. Not again. Not after last time. Two mugs of tea. She distracted herself with something routine, something she could do without thinking too hard about it, but at the same time, she kept an eye on Sherlock out of the corner of her eyes. “Sometimes.” Sherlock handed her a plate full of takeaway, and she grabbed a pair of forks, eyeing his smaller plate.

“That’s a bit creepy,” she informed him.

Sherlock smiled - just a little lift in the corner of his lips - but it was a smile, and it made Molly’s stomach do a lazy flip, send butterflies floating through her middle. She turned away from him, forced the feelings down. No. “There’s one of your programmes on right now,” he said after a few moments.

“One of my programmes?” she asked, already reaching for the remote.

The evening passed quietly, Molly sitting on the floor, her legs crossed, and Sherlock on the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him. It should bother her, sitting like that, with him. A tentative sort of acceptance. A truce of sorts. Trust being slowly built. At the end, Sherlock stood, placed his dishes in the sink, and left a thin box on the table. He smiled at Molly - that thin, quirky smile - and then turned and left, shutting the door behind him. Inside the box had been a monogrammed pen. High quality, with small bottles of ink. A fountain pen.

Time passed. Molly wasn’t wholly sure how long. Six months? A year? Maybe more. Sherlock dropped by occasionally. A few times a week when he wasn’t on a case. Less when he was. Sometimes she didn’t see him for weeks, if he was chasing something important or was out of town. When he was in town, he would drop by. Sometimes with takeaway, sometimes with tea or something else. Every time he left something small for her on the table. Even on the nights she fell asleep before he left. What was in them varied. A bracelet, with various charms, all packed carefully in small boxes. Each charm was something different. Each meant something unique, something special. Some of Molly’s favourite tea. Her favourite snacks.

Their routine was the same every time. Molly would sit on the floor in her pyjamas, legs crossed, and they would eat or watch the telly. Sherlock would sit on the sofa, stretching his legs over its expanse, and would talk if she wanted, or stay silent if it was indicated. It became an easy camaraderie that extended to their work. They were synchronised, after spending so much time together. Sherlock would hand something to Molly right when she needed it, and she would do the same for him.

Not that it was an easy time, for Molly. Grief came and went, and there were times she wouldn’t leave her bed for two or three days, preferring to curl up under her covers, clutching the frame to her chest, and sob. It hurt, pretending to be normal. Pretending to be okay. Everything got to be too much. Food and tea would appear on her nightstand, sometimes every few hours. She tried to be offended at the blatant lack of privacy, but she couldn’t deny how much Sherlock attempting to care made her happy.

It had been one year, two months, and three days since Lily Anne’s death, and Molly was sole coverage in the morgue. That meant she took all the cases that came in, performed all autopsies needed, verified cause of death if she was called upon. All part of her duties as a pathologist. So when she stepped into the morgue, the file of her newest patient held in her hands, she was not prepared for what she saw.

“28 year old, first baby. They lost the heartbeat, and then the Mum collapsed during labour. They think it was an embolism, but they want an autopsy to make sure,” the morgue attendant rattled off. Molly was gripping the table tightly. It felt like her world had turned upside down, like the world was rushing past her ears, like everything had stopped and started suffocating her, all at the same time.

It was times like these that Molly couldn’t deal. Things that reminded her of herself, of Lily, of her life, her situation. What she had lost. That she was alone. Warm, gentle hands drew her away from the morgue table, gently enveloped her in his warm coat, wrapped his arms around her back. Not trapping, but supporting. Holding her up. “It’s okay,” Sherlock murmured, low voice comforting, warm.

She should have been scared. She should have pushed away, slapped him for his impertinence, should have run away. Instead, as he cradled her head with one of his impossibly large hands, she wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed closer, her head tucked against his chest. She felt safe. Protected. Like no one could get to her, cared for like she was. It was dangerous. Scary. Dizzy, intoxicating. It was bad, and Molly was afraid. But it felt right, like no one else ever had.

“Let’s get you home,” Sherlock murmured, leaning down to press his lips briefly to Molly’s head. Not a kiss, but reassurance, warm and comforting.

“I can’t,” Molly protested. “I’m coverage.”

“John contacted Mike and they have arranged coverage for you,” Sherlock replied evenly. “He understands.”

Molly hesitated, and then nodded. Sherlock slipped an arm around her waist, walked her outside. Summoned a cabbie, gave him Molly’s address. Took her home. When Molly withdrew in the cab, stayed to her own side, Sherlock did not push her. For all that he was brash and arrogant at times, he had been unusually warm to her and respectful of her wishes. Sherlock had lied in the past. Manipulated. But something about all of this felt raw and honest. His uncertainty. The small, sentimental gifts. A bracelet. Small figurines. The frame.

“Did John help you?” Molly asked him as they walked upstairs. She didn’t hold on to him, didn’t need him, but she could not deny that his presence next to her was comforting.

“Yes.” Sherlock waited for Molly to open the door and steered her to the sofa, gently pushing her shoulders so that she sat down. “And Lestrade.”

“Why?” She pulled her knees up to her chest, rested her head up on them. It was the first time she had sat on the sofa properly in ages. It felt weird, Too comfortable. Too soft. She wanted to be back on the floor, where things were safe, sturdy, secure.

Sherlock handed her a mug of tea, and she cupped it with her hands, breathing in the warm steam. She watched him over the top of it, watched him struggle with what he wanted to say. What he was thinking of saying. It was like a war, one without resolution. “Atonement,” Sherlock said finally. “The first case I did with John. The woman’s password to her phone was the name of her stillborn daughter, ten years ago.”

Molly inhaled sharply, shifting closer to her edge of the sofa as Sherlock sat down. “Lily Anne was her name,” she said slowly. It was the first time she had talked about her daughter to Sherlock. Out loud, at least. By name. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. Everything spilled out. Her relationship with Tom. Her hopes. Her fears, her dreams. Everything. What it had been like, being alone, with no one there.

It was like a dam had burst, like Molly could finally feel again, and by the time she was done, her face was wet with tears, and she had gone through half a box of tissues. She sniffed, her nose running from crying so long, and wiped her face with a warm, wet washcloth that Sherlock had handed to her. Despite all of that, she felt the tiniest bit better. Like life wasn’t crushing her, but was holding her up, serving as a buoy. She would make it, and she would be okay.

She felt a hand clasp hers, and she allowed Sherlock to take it, gently squeeze. “I know a good fish and chips place,” he said evenly.

“As friends.” Molly stroked his hand briefly, then let it go and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her forehead on her knees. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and all she wanted was to sleep. “For now.”

“I am amenable to that arrangement.” Sherlock stood slowly. “Do you - do you need anything?”

“No, thanks.” Molly offered him a tired smile.

“I shall text you to arrange a time.”

“Alright.” Sherlock nodded one last time at Molly’s agreement, and then left, closing the door quietly behind him.

They had dinner a few days later. Molly had been worried about it being awkward. Uncertain. But it wasn’t. They talked about work, mostly, Sherlock regaling her with his latest case. Molly had sat it out, having taken some time off from work during the time autopsies were needed. Instead he told her about working with one of the other doctors, doing his best to entertain, tell stories in a way that would make her laugh. He wasn’t perfect, not even close, but the fact she could tell he was trying brought a smile to her face and lifted her heart in a way it had not been prior.

In return, she told him particularly tricky cases she had worked on, and let him guess the cause of death. It was a strange match, their personalities, but something about it worked. But they were just friends. Molly didn’t want to be more. Not yet. She needed more time. Once diner was over, they walked back to her place, side by side, arms brushing occasionally. It was all platonic, Molly told herself. It didn’t mean anything. Sherlock was being polite.

They stood outside her door, not separated by much. Molly lifted her head, looked up at Sherlock, offered him a smile. He was watching her with his light eyes, something hidden in the depths that she could not make out. It frightened her, the way it made her stomach turn and twist. His eyes were full of things she was not willing to acknowledge, feelings that bubbled just beneath the surface. It was not yet time. She reached up on her tip toes, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t say anything. Molly wondered if he knew what to say. If there was anything to say. It felt like an ending. Like a beginning. Like there was something hanging between them, just waiting to be acknowledged. But the weight of it scared her, made her shy away. For now, it would remain where it was. Unacknowledged. Unknown. Somewhere it couldn’t get her. “Have a good night, Molly Hooper.” He nodded, just once, and then turned and left, the coat swirling behind him. Molly smiled to herself, a secret little smile, full of warmth and flickers of happiness, and then went into her apartment, shutting the door firmly behind her.

It was a week before she saw him again. Before he showed up at her door with takeaway, like nothing had changed. She was in her pyjamas again, this time a ratty plain shirt and blue bottoms with puppies. They were happy and comfortable, and she liked them. This time, they both sat on the couch. Molly on her side, Sherlock on his, and they ate takeaway and watched one of her favourite programmes. Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered occasionally, but Molly watched him with a grin. She had seen him go from being outwardly dismissive of its drama to actually being slightly invested in the characters. It was a strange change in Sherlock’s demeanour, but one she valued nonetheless.

At the end, he left a package on her table, smiled his slight smile, and bade her good-night. It was a new pair of pyjamas, and Molly blushed a little when she realized he knew her size. Then again, he was Sherlock, and she doubted that something like that was difficult for him to figure out. At least it wasn’t a new pair of knickers, she mused.

He dropped by again a few nights later, and it became a regular pattern, like it had always been. Slowly, things changed. Molly stretched out more, until she would sometimes watch the shows with her feet on his lap, or closer to his half of the sofa than hers. One night, a few months later, she was particularly brave. Or extremely tired. She never was certain. Probably both. She yawned, leaned her forehead against his shoulder, her eyes closed.

She felt him still underneath her, felt him tense, and for a moment, started to pull back. “I am unfamiliar with what you are asking.” His words were cautious. Hesitant. Afraid.

“I don’t know what I’m asking.” Her voice was quiet. Tentative. She lifted her head. Met Sherlock’s eyes. Saw all that she had been denying. All she had pretended not to see. Want, desire. Fear and affection. A jumble of confused emotions, all twisted together so she could not tell where one started and the other ended. A warm hand gently cradled her face. Not pushing. Asking.

She shifted so that she was kneeling on the couch, her leg pressing Sherlock’s, and she looked down at him, the slight height advantage awarded by her kneeling posture. He looked back at her. Open. Trusting. She took his face in her small hands, leaned down. Their noses knocked. She looked at him, he looked at her, a naked vulnerability that made Molly’s heart beat faster.

The world didn’t end when their lips touched. It didn’t move. There weren’t fireworks. Bells didn’t ring. But Molly’s heart lurched in her chest. She could hear it pounding in her ears, could feel Sherlock’s hands slide around her waist, draw her closer as he made a quiet sound. She felt powerful. Like she could rule the world. Their mouths opened, a synchronous, mutual decision, and their tongues met. This time it was Molly that made the noise, a soft whimper. She wanted more. Wanted everything.

They kissed for long, lazy moments, before Molly broke away, her forehead on Sherlock’s chest and his arms around her. He stroked her back, up and down, repetitive motions that soothed her rapidly-beating heart. She had kissed Sherlock Holmes. He had kissed her back. Wasn’t the world supposed to explode, or something? “If you want to leave, it’s fine,” she said quietly. It was an option, for him. He could leave. Not look back. Molly would move on. She would survive. She could do it. Or so she thought.

But she didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to stay with her. Hold her hand. Cuddle her on a bad day. The good ones. The ones in between. “Hmm.” He tipped her head up, gentle, leaned forward and kissed her again, short and sweet, tender and kind.

“That’s not an answer,” she chided, a slight smile on her face. It was like they had tipped over the edge, fallen over a cliff, but they had done it together, hand in hand. They had taken the first step, and that was the most critical. “I can’t - I can’t forget her. I can’t forget him.” Her words were hesitant, halting. They were difficult ones. She wanted to go into something new with all of the old out of the way. Lily would never be forgotten. Molly would remember her always. But she would take her into her new life, and leave the baggage behind.

Sherlock kissed her briefly, and stood. He walked over to his coat and took a small box out of the pocket, before returning to the couch and slipping it into Molly’s hands. She looked from the box to him, her eyes speculative, before gently opening it. Inside was a small golden locket with a lily on it the front. She stopped and stared, eyes wide, and Sherlock looked away, distinctly uncomfortable with the sentiment. Carefully she opened it, and inside was a picture of her daughter. Her name and the day she died was meticulously engraved on the other side.

“May I?” he asked quietly.

She turned so that her back was to him, twisting her hair off her neck. Sherlock undid the clasp, gently sliding the locket so it rested between her breasts, and then fastened it, stroking her neck with a finger to smooth it down. “Thank you.”

They ended up curled on the couch, Molly laid out with her head tucked underneath Sherlock’s chin, his hand on her back, warm and comfortable. There was a show on, one of Molly’s favourite programmes, but it was a re-run and she was too sleepy to pay much attention. They dozed on and off - or Molly did, at least, she doubted Sherlock slept much - for a while, until the programme changed. Molly quickly lifted her head, eager. “Oh, I like this one!”

She rubbed her head, having come in contact with Sherlock’s sharp chin. “Ouch.”

“At least you weren’t wearing a clip,” he muttered, rubbing his face.

“True, because the tines would have ripped a hole in your pretty face.” Molly patted his chin and laid back down, her mood significantly lighter than it had been an hour earlier. Dating Sherlock certainly wouldn’t be easy. There would be misunderstandings. Misinterpretations. He wasn’t always careful with what he said. That, she knew from years of experience. But he was there, by her side. They would face everything together.

She tucked her head closer, nuzzled his neck. Felt him shift underneath her, heard his amused chuckle. Felt his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her safe and secure. Everything would be all right.


End file.
